


South Source

by orphan_account



Category: South Park
Genre: Alternate Universe - Star Wars Setting, Multi, Other
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-10-08
Updated: 2014-10-18
Packaged: 2018-02-20 09:05:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,803
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2423060
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A long time ago, in a galaxy far, far away…I mean, kinda later, in a galaxy, we all know and have secret bathtime feelings for...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Episode I : M.A.C.H.O. MAN

**Author's Note:**

> My gravestone: She did it for the lulz.

..o o O O 0 0 O O ***** O O 0 0 O O o o ..

 

**A long time ago,**

**in a galaxy far, far away…**  

 

**I mean, kinda later,**

**in a galaxy, we all know and**

**have secret bathtime feelings for...**

 

*fanfare*

 

_**S O U T H   S O U R C E** _

Episode I:

M.A.C.H.O. Man

 

Interstellar Renaissance! The Martian College celebrates its centennial under the threat of sabotage! Vans Deferens and his clone army intend to rob the College’s data banks for valuable intel on the South Source Parallax, the unplottable hiding spot of chain-breaker adversaries, the Rebel Helix! Audiences from far and wide gather for the grand affair unaware of the threat of multidimensional war! Among them, young Stan Macho, adrift in his eighteenth year, enters the fray eager, yet green...

 

..o o O O 0 0 O O * O O 0 0 O O o o ..

 

Stan groaned. A lifetime in Saturn’s rings would have been better than this shuttle ride.

 

He clutched his churning stomach as the massive commuter shuttle undulated through another barrel roll. The pilot was attempting to strike the right trajectory in the midst of an asteroid field. Showers of space garbage rattled against the hull as he failed again and again to calculate a path around the hovering icy debris. First Class passengers could admire eclectic array through their viewports and would never notice the turbulence or mind the idling, but those in coach were abandoned to their fright and nausea in the windowless cargo hull. Adding the tremors of the shuddering hydraulics, the total noise in the hold made up for the whole deadly quiet of space.

 

Had he been in the cockpit, Stan could have swung the commercial piece of junk into the right coordinates, slammed the throttle, and steered them straight into Port Opportunity in twenty seconds flat. But the cloying odor of alien bodies and the piney reek of recycled air had become intolerable over the last nine hours, and even worse than the noise. With the FTL navigation under armed guards, Stan could do no better than to huddle alone by a fresh air vent and try to will himself into the captain’s chair.

 

Stan had been a rudimentary pilot at nine, hitching rides around the flak of Saturn’s rings. At fifteen, he was trusted to run freights from his Uncle’s shop on Ymir into the shadows of the Oort cloud. He had strummed out ballads in the darkness of ion storms, and been trapped in the orbit of a neutron star. He’d even pissed on Uranus-- which sounded more impressive than the truth, which was that he’d only emptied his waste tank in orbit around the gassy giant. But when he recalled that icy smattering of himself lingering out there on the edge of the galaxy, Stan was mindful to remember that his presence could extend far beyond his body. Greater forces were at work. A kid could turn out worse being raised in unmatched cold and low gravity, and he'd done it all with the strongest gag reflex on Saturn.

 

Across the hold, Sparky had pulled his pink bandanna over his nose. His beastly friend was covered from head to toe with thick, grey fur and was wedged amongst a flock of largesse Reptilian Sisters murmuring in prayer, placated by the scaly ladies’ gentle speech in spite of all the calamitous noise. Stan reconciled; he’d seen Sparky rip a man’s arm from his socket and play fetch with it, but the awful noise and smell of terrified humans and Martians must have entertained the Wookie breed.

 

Hailing from Ceres, the shuttle was barreling along the volume of the asteroid belt, on their final connecting voyage to Mars. Telling time was spotty in space and fully dependent on who you were traveling with. It could have been two months or two years since he left behind Uncle Jimbo and Ned to moonlight on Jupiter, and it had all changed after a curious message from a long, lost relative.

 

‘I owe your mother this last favor, Stan Macho! You were raised by pirates, but you are the son a soldier! It would benefit you to join the service before you risk ending your life for piracy,’ the grey-haired woman feebly acknowledged to an unseen grandnephew, ‘As a pilot, you can bring pride to the Macho name.’ Then her flicking image died away.

 

The instructions were to meet his mother’s aunt Lamina Flo at the Holden basin on Mars, and accept a pilot’s position in the Martian Guard. Her message had arrived via hologram, courtesy of an unenthused representative from Star-Spangled Sextpress-- the only physical-message-delivery service that worked inside of Kuiper. Jimbo’s trade was in copper that week, which could only be fused onto the exterior of the messenger’s ship in order to cover the bill. Stan would have welded copper panels to that oblong, rusty JP Scouter for days in exchange for the time he had wasted stalled in the present high velocity tuna can.

 

'Sounds like she needs a houseboy,' Ned delivered with his lips pursed tight. ‘If you want that, we should just sell you to Mr. Slave.’

 

Uncle Jimbo guffawed, and offered the pouty Squid in a bikini a water bladder with a crazy straw. ‘Don’t listen to that old fossil, Stan. You’re already a pilot. Don’t need some fancy certificate to tell you that.” Then he attempted the chat up the tentacled guest. Ned made some dashes in his ledger, and Stan hauled sheet metal to the dock and mused over the strange invitation. Stan had no legacy on Ymir, and all that had remained of his parents after their Venutian cruiser crossed paths with a solar storm could be tucked into the lining of his guitar case.

 

Stan’s earliest memory was sitting in Jimbo’s lap behind the controls of a stealth fighter that had been outfitted to herd flocks of spacebergs with a magnetized angler. The brightness of the colliding ice and his Uncle’s raucous laughter in that cockpit had been his initiation. Stan dreamed of becoming a true pilot, charting the universe with his pet Dog and seeking out the great marvels of space. Jimbo and Ned had thousands of stories between them, but Stan had none of his own. It was true, he didn't need anyone to tell him how to fly a ship. He did, however, need a good reason to leave behind his life as a glorified gas station attendant.

 

Not wanting to rob his uncle of one of his expensive freighters, Stan and Sparky quite literally hitched a pod to the hull of a wayward cruiser and floated away into the vastness of space. They were without direction at first, living from job to job on the moons of Jupiter, but Stan had full intent of reaching out to his aunt. He wasn't convinced that he wanted to join the army, but he did want to know more about his mother. Stan couldn't turn down a chance to learn about his birthright. Though he wouldn't recognize them today, he still wanted to make his parents proud.

 

The ship lurched again from side to side. Finally, Stan surrendered his formerly freeze-dried lunch into his hat. Sparky excused himself from his pios company, and rushed over to lick away the mess. Stan threw his hat to the side for Sparky to devour, and kicked his feet out in exasperation. He was finally fed up. Bracing against the curved walls for balance, Stan struggled to his feet, shouldered his guitar case, and whistled for Spark, the green tinge still present in his cheeks.

 

A simpler man would have gone for a drink of water and then taken his seat. A smarter man would have started an uprising. But a Macho man stand up for himself. ‘You aren't getting out of this cockpit alive unless unless you relinquish control of this ship,’ Stan explained around a belch.

 

The navicoms were chirping with impact signals, but no one dared to silence them. In awe of the weapon in the young man’s hands, the crew had turned to stone, waiting for their next command.  

 

‘Okay! F-fine! P-p-put that thing away!’ the captain stuttered, leaping out of his plush chair, glancing desperately at the fallen guards. Stan yanked him by the collar and threw him down to his knees. ‘W-w-who are you?’ the captain squealed.

 

Stan lowered his red laser sword to since the ascot on the pilot’s shuddering neck, but then sheathed his weapon. A slow, consoling grin breached through his hijacker act.

 

‘I am your only goddamned hope!’

 

*fanfare*

 

..o o O O 0 0 O O ***** O O 0 0 O O o o ..

 

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

..o o O O 0 0 O O * O O 0 0 O O o o ..

 

Once, there was nothing, but then BANG! The universe erupted into space like some sexy kitchen accident we can only imagine tasted like bananas, maple sausage, and sriracha. At the heart of this delicious mess, there survived a planet steeped in the history of its most gruesome and depraved inhabitants. The Earthlings developed fruitless creative endeavors, and in mocking the popular tropes of their culture, they fought their own decline with diplomatic stagnancy and carbohydrate-induced comas. Once terrestrial peace had been established-- after two invasions, seven years of war, and a corporate buyout, then the rebranding-- the space surrounding the Earth™ changed forever.

 

The most elusive of all the unchartable forces in the Milky Way was the South Source, which was really less like a true force and more like an uncharted wasteland of pussy stars, having leaked out of the sun’s asshole into a visceral mess. Brown Dwarfs, or more commonly known as Starshit, were simply clusters of unmade stars that were prone to disrupting navigation systems with dark matter and ion bubbles. The stuff of stars was quite valuable to neighboring galaxies, if you could find it, bottle it, and come back to your dimension in one piece.

 

But there were those with the ability to sense the South Source and bend it to their will. These Brown Eyed Masters lived in seclusion, drawing from this unplottable matter to merge realities and make space an illusion. Once a great company of devoted practitioners, these Peacemakers had a mission to use their powers for the good of all living entities in the universe, to negate the causal distance between them, physically and spiritually, whether it was natural chaos putting those at risk or soothing overwrought disputes.

 

The truth is, they were our first visitors to arrive at the planet formerly known as Earth in the days prior to the first millenium. They even tamed the Gaza strip for a spell. But the Seven Year War took its toll on the early emissaries and the Earth™ destroyed their earliest successful contacts. Those who remained fled to their only resource, and probably perished there as a result of the Earth’s™ nuclear enthusiasm, which left the Martian College with nothing but a vision of what they could have achieve helped us achieve.

 

‘Uncondensed energy is practically impossible to find with present technology, and even those from other worlds struggle with its spectral conversion. To truly locate the South Source, one would be forced to enter another reality entirely. Which is why its the perfect hiding spot for the most valuable materials to our industrial future. This matter has been unchartable since before the millenium. I’m promising a lot. My algorithms can trace the presence of the Source, and I believe, aid in it’s spectral conversion. Only by careful mistakes were early astronomers able to measure and track it’s existence, but now we can understand the spectronomy and interact with it.The South Source is not just invisible, though. It’s getting bigger.’

 

Kyle looked into the bathroom mirror and tried to unscrew his eyebrows, which gave him a severely constipated look on his face. Peering into the dusty crevices of his prosthetic nose, he dove under the sink for a can of compressed air and forgot his speech entirely.

 

It was the beginning of another daily cycle on Mars, but a particularly important day for Kyle Braheflofski, who was to present his graduate thesis on the South Source Parallax, at the Martian College Centennial. He had given the same introductory spiel to his undergrads at the beginning of the semester, and countless times after that, but today, he would present to an audience made up of the ambassadors of over a dozen galaxies, a crowd of his esteemed peers, and his living and breathing mother.

 

Which scared the star shit out of him.

 

His mother had elected to take a last minute cruise to Titan before the ceremony, although her true intention was pure mental torture. ‘I don't care what you've discovered, you still should have written sooner about the ceremony!’ It had been a long time coming, too. He had turned nineteen while Mars was in retrograde, and her video message to him played more like a Lost In Space bereavement testimonial. Her revenge after missing her son for so long was that she had documented every off-shore excursion, constantly reminding Kyle of her incoming presence, up until last night when she boarded a shuttle from Ceres on the wave of a solar flare. The brief peace was a Godsend.

 

Sheila Braheflofski had only been skyward years before, when Kyle lost his nose in an accident involving ballistic golf balls on an elementary trip to the Earth’s™ moon. To say that Kyle was a weapons enthusiast now was an understatement; he was the only student in his field who had a license to shoot lasers before he could build them. Sheila suffered through her son’s brutal hobbies with enthusiasm, and she nursed him through the installation of the great gold snoz. ‘That was a nice nose to begin with, but after all the money your father and I, it’s a public service announcement!’ She would have preferred a subtler model, but his father thought that gold made a grander statement, a great impression for a potential politician. A pretty specific statement, Kyle knew, but he bore the auspicious snout and grew to like it. He wouldn’t be the first Martian graduate with a prosthetics, but surely his face would never be forgotten.

 

Kyle pulled at the curly mop on his head, lamenting it’s length and frizziness. She would have insisted that he get it cut before today, but Kyle didn’t have the time to play hairdresser! He had been secretly backing up all of his research data, minimizing any margin of security error that could befall him in the impending circumstances.‘But it's your graduation! Couldn't you have done something about your hair?’ He’d been through the pressure and aplomb of one ceremony with his mother in prepatory school, and he could only imagine that her grandiose expectations had developed with the time apart, regardless the dire and precarious circumstances he found himself in, trying to convince the resonant authorities of the galaxy not to blaspheme his life’s work.

 

Hairy, pale, and underfed, he would have made a more convincing lab rat, like the shady geneticist he shared his dorm with. The Braheflofski genes didn’t lend much favor either. Kyle slammed the closet door shut and combed through his desk for a vapor stick to soothe his nerves, but found none. Realizing that he had pitched them in anticipation of Sheila’s arrival, Kyle kicked his desk and collapsed in a floating chair. ‘Kyle, you’ll wrinkle your creases! You did iron that didn’t you?’ his mother chided him in his head, “Sweetie, eat something! You look like a human test subject, not a scholar!’ In his mind, Kyle could envision his father’s sympathizing eyes, and was jealous that he had elected to stay at home base with to work in peace. Dad was all about logical conclusions, after all.

 

Conclusion. He’d forgotten the conclusion! Kyle wrestled his iDroid out of his pocket and projected a hologram of his presentation in front of him. There was only an hour before the opening ceremonies, and then two hours before his time slot, and then an hour and a half more until his mother would come barreling out of the crowd to save him from Vans Deferens. Kyle skimmed the array of diagrams, and mouthed the words to himself silently as he gathered his pack and his helmet.The door sealed shut behind him. He was so intent, he didn’t see his dorm intercom light up, or hear a tinny voice announce itself.

 

‘Kyle? It’s your mother! Listen, bubbeleh, you would not believe the flight I am having!’

 

..o o O O 0 0 O O * O O 0 0 O O o o ..

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> More to come? Happy Eighteenth Season ~


End file.
